The Last Match
by perrilloux.bf68
Summary: Alone with nothing but his thoughts, three cigarettes and the trying company of a talkative prison guard, a death row inmate spends the last night of his life counting down the hours until his sentence. Prepared for his fate, he is unprepared when fate takes hold of him, giving him a chance encounter with the only person who has the power to set him free, a man who knows his name.


**The Last Match**

* * *

The box was white, painted red in all the right places. It looked dingy in the darkness, in the dim orange light that radiated solitarily from the light bulb dangling mere feet outside his cell. Behind the bars, beyond the pair of standard lump-ridden prison beds and the black metal toilet whose water always ran and leaked, it was quiet just as he requested it, as he expected it being the only one left… well, not exactly. His hand rattled the box causing the cigarettes to tap dance inside. He smiled hearing them, calmly joined them drumming the box's weather beaten edge against the palm of his hand. One. Two. Shake. Slap. One escaped, a cigarette scurried through the hole in the top only to be caught once more by fingers that were dirty and calloused, bruised and stout and cracked from too many fights, too many loses, too many crimes not withholding the one that landed him in there in the first place.

Lost and uncaring, the man slowly pulled the cigarette from the box. He let his calloused fingers caress the thin white cylinder before placing its crisp tanned end between flat folded lips cocooned in too much stubble. His five hour shadow speckled thin olive brown cheeks, a flat nose, a tall forehead with two curling eyebrows that draped and folded over dark eyes that were cast downward and not upward, inward not outward. His fingers released the cigarette just so he could rub them over his face while his other hand slid the magic box, the sacred box, the tattered box back into his pocket.

He got his clothes back: the grey slacks they found him in, the black shirt, the pearly white tennis shoes and his baseball cap. He pulled the bill back until it sat like it used to those many long years ago. It felt good, perfect almost. He could almost forget that in a mere few hours he was going to die. He bit down on the end of his cigarette while his fingers fiddled through his pockets trying to find the matches he stashed the day they found him. He was standing over his pool. He remembered that, remembered that they were in his right pocket—no, the left. Yes, he remembered. They were in the left, because that's where he'd stuffed them when he went to find the gun and then their bedroom.

He pulled out the small red box and stripped the cover from the inside carton. His cigarette lurched then twirled. He remembered there were only three left. Three matches. Three cigarettes. One night before they called his name. Eight hours and then the dawn would break and his life would end. He hoped they would be sweet, silent, in a word, uneventful. Cigarette one rolled under lips that pouted. They had better be. He had requested the best after all, only the best for the man about to die.

Wrestling a match from the tiny box, the criminal closed the lid and tucked it into his pocket. He sat forward on his cot with his elbows on his knees then adjusted the cigarette in his mouth. He was just about to strike the match against his thumb when a voice interrupted him. The criminal grumbled softly expecting it and yet wasn't. He was the only one in this part of the prison, the only one except for one other, the warden. He was the one assigned to watch him and the other death row inmates, when there used to be others. They had left, all of them, through the little door on the left, the one found at the end of the hall. In the morning, he too would go through that door. Leave and never come back. He bit further on his cigarette and shook his head lifting dark eyes to meet soft golden brown, eyes that watched him steadily under a common grey police cap, a common grey police uniform with a stick, a belt, a gun and a jacket. In his hands, the slender man carried a tray filled with meat and potatoes, another request, nothing but the best for the man about to die. The criminal took the cigarette out of his mouth and placed it behind his ear. He'd enjoy it later.

He sloped to his feet and shuffled over to the gate, the bars, his prison door to stare at the man who greeted him in silence offering the tray through the little hole in the center. The criminal hesitated a moment staring and then grabbed the tray roughly before stalking back to his cot, one of two in the small little cell. To his relief, no one else had occupied it, not since his arrival two years ago. He sat down and tore into the dinner roll waiting for the warden to start the conversation. He always did. He didn't disappoint.

"So," he mumbled. "This is it. Isn't it?"

The criminal ignored him chewing quickly through the roll sans butter, sans anything but the pure sweet taste of unadulterated bread.

"Your last night here—in here I mean."

He started in on the mashed potatoes thinking how nice it was to finally touch real silverware again. They were not as nice as his used to be but still, it felt… they felt…. he felt…

"Are you nervous?"

The criminal paused before picking up the serrated butter knife and tearing through the steak abruptly. It barely cut it. He needed a real steak knife but taking in his situation, this was probably all they trusted him with. The man snorted. What would he do with it? Stab the pillow? He downed the wine and grimaced.

"Scared?" The warden's brow bowed as he turned to lean against the bars, stare at the door which led to the yard. Under his cap, his eyes squinted in thought. "You know, it's okay to be."

The knife dropped, the plates clattered and the criminal abruptly stood to his feet before moving to shove the tray through the hole in his door, into the startled hands of the warden. Those golden brown pupils quickly widened before blinking in bewilderment.

"Is this some kind of joke?" the criminal growled. "Get out!"

The warden quickly calmed, quietly gathered up the tray. He tilted his head a little. "Ah! As prickly as ever, it seems." He sighed a little then stepped away. "I thought you might want some company that's all. No one should be alone, you know, on their last night."

The criminal didn't answer just glared watching the warden walk away. Request accepted. Satisfaction zero. He untucked the match and struck it letting its light flare against the back of his guard.

He stopped then. He squinted, watching the light streak through the beige bars of his cell. Bringing the match slowly to his lips, the butt end of the cigarette, he frowned then walked to his cot. Purposely, he ignored any thoughts on why the warden seemed to shift in the light. Perhaps, he shouldn't have guzzled the wine. "Perhaps," he grunted.

After finishing the cigarette, the criminal leaned back against his cot. He readjusted his hat until it covered his eyes and then he slept. He slept deeply, lightly, quietly.

* * *

It was the sound that woke him, the criminal, a tut, tut and shut that repeated over and over and over again, a tap tap tapping that seemed to sway as it putted past him. It turned around then came to a stop in front of him. The criminal slit open an eye and glared. His eyebrows knotted.

The warden returned and he was walking through the jail making his rounds. His boots were tapping, his palms slapping as they were tucked behind a muscular yet slender well-perched back. The back of one hand clapped the palm of the one underneath it. Eventually, he paused, the warden, waited in front of the criminal's door. His hands were still tapping, slapping, clapping to an irregular rhythm that easily grated against the criminal's nerves. Tut. Tut. Shut. Tut. Tut—the warden stared at him.

The criminal met his gaze calmly before retucking his hat over his eyes then rolled over. He endeavored to go back to sleep. The warden frowned.

Turning, he moved to sit on the floor, leaned his back against the bars uncaring for his suit or the gun that prodded against his thigh. He took a breath then put a hand in his pocket. Things rumbled crinkling the lips of the criminal, gritting his teeth, until the noised stopped as the warden pulled out a small blue ball. He sighed twisting it between his fingers. Left, right, then left again. It bounced. Lifting his hand, the warden tossed it against the floor. He watched it leap across the hall, slink through the bars of the opposite cell then ricochet back to him as it bounced off its opposite wall. The sound though soft, quickly shredded the criminal's already aggravated nerves. It repeated over and over and over again, like the ticking of the clock on the wall. Tut, tut, shut. Tut, tut—

The criminal open his eyes then glared—again. "Do you have a problem?"

The warden caught the ball then paused looking back at him, his mouth gaping awkwardly. "Ah? No, I was just…" Quickly, he shoved the ball back into his pocket before turning to lean once more against the bars of the criminal's cell. He twiddled his thumbs.

The criminal stared only for a moment before turning his back against the light and the cop. He knew what his guard wanted and he wasn't about to give him the opportunity. He had heard it all before.

"Do you want to talk?"

"Not interested."

"Are you sure? I heard speaking tends to—"

"I don't care," the criminal rumbled.

"Really?" The warden turned back to look at his charge.

He was young, too young it seemed for the job. The criminal remembered when one of his fellow inmates had asked the man point blank what his age was.

"Give me a number," he jested. "You can't be older than 25, 26 at the most."

The warden had then simply smiled at him before shrugging casually. "Higher," he laughed.

He wasn't laughing now and neither was the criminal. The clock continued to tick. Dawn was coming. There was no time for such gayety.

The warden sighed. "You know, you're fellows didn't have problems talkin' to me."

"Well, I ain't as weak as they are," the criminal snarled back. "I know what you are."

"Do you?"

"Yeah." The criminal turned to the man. "You're one of them bible bashin', holy ghost thumpin'—"

"We both know I'm the Chaplin of this part of the prison as well as its guard." The warden interrupted unhappily.

"Yeah and I've already heard your spiel six times over."

"Have you?"

"I don't need to hear it again."

"Hmm…" The warden paused considering this. He settled crossing his arms, leaned his head against the bars. "And what exactly did I say?" he asked softly. "All those conversations were different, not one was—"

"And yet they all boil down to one thing—well, two. You keep using the same illustration."

"And what is that?"

The criminal grumbled and the warden met it with a smile.

"Listen," he said.

"No, you listen," the criminal hissed. "I ain't interested."

"If you weren't, you wouldn't be so knowledgeable about conversations that were originally for other ears only."

"Other ears? We're in a prison!"

The warden chuckled a little taking off his hat and turning away. "Listen, I will make a deal with you," he said. "If… If you can tell me all of my illustration, then I'll leave you be. I still have a job to complete, you know."

At first, the criminal didn't answer. He got up and put his elbows on his knees, took off his hat and used it to cup his face purposely blocking out the glow of that ever present orange light. Most days, it had been a comfort but today he hated it. He groaned into the fabric of his cap, into the tattered threads of its seams which were almost falling apart. He was too tired for this. The criminal snapped back and jerked the cap on his head before cluttering to his feet. He stomped toward the bars of his cell and frowned down at the warden.

The warden just sat there and stared up at him calm and collected—no, that wasn't right. There was something in his eyes, something that dulled them, made them sit wider than normal. The criminal sneered. He had seen that look before. "A job?" he growled. He cursed. "Let me be the first to tell you that I don't care about any bible preachin' quota you need to fill."

"It isn't a—"

"Like hell, it ain't."

For a moment, the warden stared in silence watching the criminal puff his chest, slit his eyes and blow his cheeks. His nose twitched.

The warden finally looked away, put his hat on and got to his feet. He was silent when the criminal continued his threat.

"I don't need you or your nonsense. I just want to sleep and that's all. So, take your crap and get lost."

"Sleep?" The warden tucked a hand into his pocket, the other curling around pursed lips. "I guess you aren't going to respond to reasonableness, but perhaps you could be swayed."

The criminal stepped forward and leaned a fist upon the bars purposely flexing his biceps, getting in the face of the warden… or as close as he could. He had done this before. They both had: once, when he got there and again a few weeks back.

It didn't surprise the warden, his aggression but he didn't back down either. Never did to any of them. There was a reason why he was the sole guard in this part of the prison. He didn't need anyone else. A muscle in the warden's jaw flexed before he stepped away. He crossed his arms. "It would delay your sentence," he said softly drumming a finger against his sleeve. "That's all I'm saying.

The criminal's stare was icy, but the fact that it was still on him was a telling improvement. He didn't storm off as he did those other instances. The warden continued quickly. "By having the talk now, it would free up a good 30 plus minutes before, you know. And since you know the whole conversation…

When the criminal banged the bars and sulked to his cot, the warden nearly trailed off but instead he plowed ahead undeterred. "If you could just say it in 10 minutes, it would earn you more time to sleep after." The warden finished.

The criminal didn't answer.

The warden pulled out the ball and twirled it a little before sighing and tucking it back in his pocket. He had begun to leave when a gruff voice halted him. "Give me the ball," it said.

The warden looked back at him. "This?" Lifting it slightly, it was blue and white, one of those paint splattered tie-died types. He smiled bringing it over to the door. "Do you like it?" He tossed it into the cell where it bounced once, twice, and then was caught between tattooed fingers and crinkled palms.

In the darkness of his prison, the criminal's fingers twirled the small sphere before stuffing it into cotton grey pockets next to the red match box for safe keeping. How many did he have left? Two—that's right. Two matches. Two cigarettes. "Two thieves," he muttered ignoring the warden's question. He wouldn't tell him that his son had liked them. He wouldn't say anything. "You talk about the two thieves that die with that Jesus guy. One goes to hell and one goes to heaven, but they all die in the end. End of story."

"Did your son like those?"

The criminal turned on his cot and stared at the man standing before him. He was leaning against the bars occasionally checking his watch. The criminal grit his teeth. "I don't want to talk about my son," he said quietly, fiercely.

Instantly, the warden met his eyes and swallowed. Bad topic. He straightened and then began to pace taking his hat off in the process, fanning himself with it. He looked… nervous.

_Good_, the criminal thought, _he should be_. Feeling slightly pacified having incited some fear in the man, the criminal began to roll back towards the wall figuring that he had satisfied the requirements of the warden's request.

"You're wrong, you know." The warden's breath puffed slightly. "This hat is giving me a headache and it's hot too. Is it getting warmer in here?" Tapping it against his thigh, the warden turned back to his prisoner his eyes dilating, taking in his charge's slight scowl, his careless shrug. The warden's lip lifted and curled in disbelief. He ran a hand through his hair and began to pace once more. After a moment, he decided to sit against the bars all the while waving his hand at the prisoner behind him. "Try again. Get it right and I'll leave you. I promise." He folded his arms and rested his elbows on his knees.

"What ain't there to get?" the criminal grunted. "Everybody knows that story." He cursed. Perhaps, he should just give up and let the man lecture. He didn't know there was an essay involved. "There are two thieves," he tried again waving a hand towards the bars. "One on his left and one on his right. You say this every time. You see it in those stupid pictures. There's always three crosses. His is the one in the middle."

"Naw, that isn't right either," the warden answered. If it wasn't for the general wonder in his voice, the criminal was almost tempted to argue that his guard was being difficult on purpose. But he wasn't, at least he didn't think so.

He got off the cot, pulled out the cigarette packet and pried out the second one. He put it in his mouth allowing it to droop and hang. He wouldn't light it. Not yet. He just wanted the feel, the weight, the taste… he eyed the cop's cap and twitched his fingers. "Give me that," he said.

The warden blinked back at him—again.

The criminal rolled his eyes.

"What?" the warden asked. He hadn't seen the gesture, didn't know to what he was referring.

"That!" The criminal snarled exasperated around his bobbing cylinder. "Your cap, I want to see it. Here." He took off his own baseball cap then moved to drape it through the bars. "You can keep this as collateral if you're worried I'd take yours or whatever."

The warden grimaced. "I'm really not supposed to…"

"I'm in a prison. I'm dyin' tomorrow. What am I goanna do? Flush it down the toilet? Come on."

Properly goaded, the warden sighed and handed up the cap, his eyes lifting to glare at his charge through sweaty bangs. It was getting hot in there.

The criminal could feel it slightly, but the heat wasn't strong enough to dampen his humor nor smear the grin that spread across his face. He reached out and grasped the cap, slid it through the bars and into his prison, but not, of course, before releasing his own hat into the puzzled fingers of the warden.

The gesture was off, the warden thought, too reverent for something so old and—

His thoughts must have been radiating from his face for the criminal almost instantly waved him on while twisting the cop hat between his fingers. He put it on. "Look under the bill," the criminal answered.

Puzzled, the warden obeyed cautiously flipping over the filthy piece of canvas. He sucked in a breath seeing the name. Jackie Roberson. He lifted a brow, looked back at the criminal.

"It's real," he said fixing the cop's brim so that it sat on straight, wishing secretly that he could see himself in a mirror. "I had it appraised a few years back." He bit down on his cigarette and smiled. He liked hats. "It's one of those, what do they call it, one of those heirlooms you pass on down to the next generation. My pa gave it to me. Said his pa gave it to him. It was signed the day the Dodgers won the World Series in 1955. It's a piece of history."

The warden couldn't help but gape. "Wow," he said putting it on.

Whether or not he believed him, the criminal couldn't tell. He didn't care and proved it by moving to sit on his cot. _Means nothing now_, he thought.

"Were you goanna pass it?" the warden asked.

The criminal sneered and he didn't press any further.

"Any way." At least not on that topic. He watched the criminal begin to go through his pockets. "You want to try again about the thieves and what not?"

The criminal's sneer inched higher. "Why don't you just spit it out? As I said, I ain't interested and twenty questions is a child's game."

_Did you son like that game as well?_ The warden wondered, but he didn't speak, at least not on that. Instead, he smiled leaning his head against the bars looking up at the light, the lonely bulb dangling solitarily by a string, swaying gently in the breeze from the fan. It made him frown, the light, dampened his mood. He unzipped his jacket with shaky hands. "You got one part right," he said. "I think you'll get it. Give it another try."

He was earnest. The criminal considered him a moment, then tried another pocket.

"I ain't sorry for what I've done," he murmured quietly. "I've earned the noose, that's what I told the judge, but I ain't sorry. This conversation is useless…"

"He wasn't sorry either."

"What?" the criminal lifted a brow.

The warden hung his head, rubbed his nose. "The one on his left, I believe, the thief. He wasn't sorry for what he did either." He met the criminal's glare easily. "Mocked the other two and everything."

"Yeah and he went to hell," the criminal's glare deepened. The warden's voice had quivered and for some reason the criminal knew he had changed the topic somehow.

"It feels like hell." Once again the warden rose to his feet taking off his jacket. The criminal's eyebrow joined his brother. He also took off the grey button up shirt. For a moment, the criminal was about to hurl some snide remark but then he saw the man's undershirt. The criminal sucked in a breath. It was soaked in sweat. The white cotton had turned yellow with dark patches seeping around the holes for his arms and neck. The criminal furrowed his brow.

"You ain't sick. Are ya?"

The warden looked back at him placing the jacket and shirt across the horizontal beam of the prisoner's door. He rubbed the back of his neck with a bewildered hand. He shook his head. "Naw, I don't think so."

"Perhaps, you should go home or see that lady in the infirmary."

Again, he shook his head quickly changing the subject. "It's nothing that can't be fixed in the morning. I'll be fine." He smiled. "It's unfortunate his fate, but at least the other one got to go to heaven right?"

He hoped he did. The criminal didn't answer at first thinking not on the story but on something else, someone else. "Do children automatically go to heaven?" His question came suddenly, his words stumbling around his cigarette. For a moment, he pondered spitting it out. The moment came then went. He looked expectantly at the warden. The warden was watching him with something akin to pity. It infuriated him. _Pity?_ His gaze hardened. "Just forget it."

"No, I didn't—" The warden backed up.

The criminal growled. "I'm glad he went to hell. They probably deserved it."

"They?"

"Him, the thief." The criminal stuttered. "I meant him. It can't be they, you already said that the other went to heaven."

The warden nodded. "I did."

"I said that."

"You did."

"But the story's wrong."

The warden hummed shaking his head. "The story is less wrong than missing something. Where you really listening before when," he paused before tilting his head furrowing his eyebrows. "You don't want the jacket? You asked for the ball and my cap."

The criminal sneered. "I don't want your clothes especially after you just sweated right through them. I used to wear suits better than that." He cursed.

"I remember the paper saying you were relatively wealthy." The warden hummed. _What a long way to fall?_

_I've fallen so far_, the criminal thought. He blinked and turned away. "Still, I'm not sorry. They got what they deserved."

"Who are they?"

The criminal blinked and looked up at the warden once again, got to his feet and began to pace. He ignored the question. If the man knew he was once wealthy, then he knew all too well who they were. The reporters weren't subtle nor unforthcoming on his victims' identities. "Did I get anything right," he asked instead.

Knowing an evasion when he heard it, the warden moved to lean once more against the bars, he watched the criminal pull out the match box and begin to retrieve a match. One of two, he thought. He saw them. He gritted his teeth. "I'm not allowed to let you have that, you know."

"You should have taken them when you gave me my clothes back. Me thinks you snuck them in for me." The criminal lifted a brow. "What am I goanna do?" he purred.

"Flush it down the toilet," the warden laughed. It was dry.

Briefly, the criminal smiled putting the box back in his pocket. His buddies used to jab him about that. Said he needed a lighter, but he never really wanted it. Matches felt better. He struck the little red blister with his thumb and lit the end of his cigarette. He eyed the clock across the hall as the warden continued to explain. Four hours. Four hours left. Halfway there. He blew out a stream of smoke and put the bud back into his mouth.

"You were right about the three crosses."

The three crosses. He could see them, shadows against a blood red sky—no, a blood red bed spread. They made crosses after he shot them. Three bullets in one, four in the other. He gave his wife one more shot for screwing his best friend, for killing their marriage, for keeping the door unlocked to the pool after they mucked up the water with their activities. He sneered. How many times had he told her, reminded her? He had figured out how to open the sliding glass door, not that he needed to. They had not only left that unlocked, but wide open as well. Her fingerprints never even touched it. That's what the cop said when they blamed his death on him. Three crosses. He made a cross too, a shadow basked in light. He was innocent, unlike the criminal.

"You tell this story to others with the hope to get them to feel like the other thief, I get it." He took out the cigarette and blew out another column of smoke. "But I ain't contrite like he is. I don't feel bad about what I did. I'm like the other one, the other thief. I'm going to hell. I'm going in exactly three hours and forty minutes. You are wasting your time."

"Actually, it's about an hour and a half," the warden answered pointing at the clock. The criminal blinked. "That clock's been off long before you ever got here. None of you have noticed and I just haven't gotten around to fixing it yet."

The criminal could do nothing but glare. "That's cruel and unusual," he said pointing at the device.

The warden merely shrugged. "Cruel only to those sentenced to die. It's a relief to those aiming to be released. It all depends on how you look at it."

"Like your story?" The criminal rolled his eyes.

The warden watched him sit down and shook his head. "No, that's not the same," he muttered. "There is the image that is taught. Yet, the truth doesn't change. How people perceive it might, but their opinion can't change facts. They don't have that power."

The criminal leaned his head against his hands then turned to stare at the warden, his gaze skeptical. "And what is the truth?" he asked.

The warden bit his lip and pushed his hand through his hair. And then he turned. In the light of that lonely little bulb, he turned to lean his arms through the bars meeting the criminal's gaze head on. He took a breath smelling smoke, sweat, urine and filth, in a word, death. Death often smelt of these things. He wiped his nose. "The truth is that the most significant aspect of the story is the one most often overlooked and rarely mentioned."

The criminal's brow creased as he straightened and leaned forward. The cigarette was getting smaller by the minute. He reached up, tapped the ash off before placing the bud back in his lips unaware. The flame smoldered. "And what exactly," he sneered, "is everyone missing?"

"It's less about what is missing as it is what was never there to begin with." The warden shrugged before straightening and stepping back. He watched the criminal while patting his pockets. He rubbed his chin coming up with some random conclusion. He smiled softly before turning to leave. "It appears that our time is running thin and it seems I've forgotten my cell phone in my office. I need to make a call. I'll be right back."

Awkwardly, the man left uncaring for the void left in his wake.

The criminal stared after him frowning deeply until the bud in his hands dwindled enough to burn his fingers. With that, he gritted his teeth and dropped it into the toilet, like ordered.

The man in his exasperation slouched back on his bed trying not to think upon their awkward conversation or the riddle the warden had left him with. To be honest, he hadn't really listened in on his prior conversations. Not enough to gleam any real clue, anyway. They were private, as the guard had mentioned. Most of what was spoken was low and unintelligible. He couldn't understand any of it.

He tilted his head to stare at the clock, glaring with the realization that it was wrong and purposely so. He bit his lip longing for the taste of his last cigarette, but he refrained knowing that in less than two hours he would need it more than ever. He wasn't scared, not yet… His eyes rolled to the shirt and jacket draping innocently across the railing to his door. The criminal scrunched his nose. In his abruptness, the warden had left them behind. He wondered why.

After staring for a moment, the criminal rose to his feet before sauntering over to pick at the sleeve of the shirt, a pocket's lip of the jacket. Instantly, thoughts of finding keys to unlock his cell and steal away raced through his mind, but those quickly came and went just as quickly. The keys weren't there but his badge was. His ID was. The criminal perked an eyebrow before, on whim, picking up the shirt after finding it surprisingly dry. It was clean enough that he didn't hesitate to put it on. It was a little snug and the buttons were posed to pop. Still, with the way the jacket hung over, he put that on too, you couldn't tell the difference.

Tucking the shirt into his pants, the criminal waddled to the toilet and looked down into the bowl hoping to see his reflection in the water. He flushed first, to get rid of the cigarette. But still, the prison was too dark. He adjusted the warden's cap on his head, fixed the tie and straightened the badge like his father used to. He wondered if he looked like him. He wondered what he would have thought.

"What have you done?" He would have said.

"You wouldn't understand," the criminal whispered. "She killed them. They killed him. I couldn't think straight. All I saw was red."

"And now look at you." His old man would have yelled that, not whispered, not spoke, just flat out yelled. He yelled at everything, a habit left over from his childhood. He'd said so, at one time. The criminal remembered. "They're goanna kill you too. You could have called 911, could have called for help, but no you took matters into your own hands and now they will kill you for it."

"I did it for Sammy's sake." He could hear himself yell right back. Would he be the first one he'd see on the other side, his son? But inside he knew, he could see the curls of his father's mane tremble as he shook his head solemnly. "No son, you will not see him. You have fallen too far. My how far we've fallen."

"It looks good on you."

The criminal jumped before turning to stare out of his cell. The warden just stood there carrying breakfast and a thick manila folder. The criminal swallowed heavily seeing it. He knew what it was.

The warden smiled gently. "You know with those pants, you almost look like one of us in this light." When the criminal didn't answer, the warden just placed his breakfast through the bars evaluating the less eagerly way he took hold of the tray. This had been another request, breakfast in bed. The tray slid in and the warden's key soon followed it unlocking the door and sliding it open. Silently, he walked in and sat down on the opposite cot pulling out the folder as his charge ate quietly.

"Did you ever want to be a cop?" he asked quietly.

The criminal shook his head, refused to speak.

"As an officer of the state, I am required to ask the next few questions and I'll be recording your answers in here." The warden spoke these words dryly. They tumbled out of his mouth crisp and practiced. He didn't look at the criminal and the criminal didn't look at him either, just stared at his orange juice. It was the same color as the light bulb. He didn't drink it.

The questions came fast. The answers came faster. Name. Age. Birth date. Last words. Last confessions. The list was long and detailed, personal enough to cause the criminal's nerves to fray, especially over those like "Where do you want to be buried?" and "Who do you wish to retrieve your body." But when he came to the question on how he wanted his name written on his headstone, the criminal sat there in misery playing with his food. He couldn't eat anything after that. He answered the man who just sat there writing in silence before finally stopping. "Your records state that you were adopted. Do you want to know your original name? We found that for you."

The criminal once again shook his head, his thoughts focused more on the future rather than the past. "That's not me anymore," he laughed nervously causing the cop's cap to teeter slightly. It was too big, he thought, too stuffy. Now, he knew how the warden felt earlier. He watched him from under his lashes. The warden didn't look any better than he felt. His skin was paler, his brow shining from his sweat. The criminal sneered in spite of himself. The man was ill. He rubbed his hands together after placing the tray on the bed. His fingers itched for a cigarette, his last one.

"Not in here. Company is coming," the warden said apologetically. "I told you I wasn't allowed to let you have those."

The criminal sighed before dropping his hand. They had wandered by themselves towards the pocket. The warden had been generous, the least he could do now was do what he asked. The criminal swallowed staring at the clock, at the light bulb, his hands, the floor. The warden was still writing.

"My son was adopted too, you know," the criminal said. The warden nodded absently.

"It's a tradition in my family, you see. May dad was adopted by his father, his father was adopted by his, 10 generations in all. Isn't that something?" Again, the warden nodded.

"That's quite remarkable. Why would your family do that?" He stopped for a moment to meet his gaze.

The criminal shrugged gesturing towards his heart. "Don't know really, but my pa said it was something about blood and all. He used to say that our family stayed loyal, because we weren't just tied together by blood but by choice. Said it was a stronger love because it actually meant something in here."

The warden put his pen down and settled back against the cot. "There is some truth to that statement," he said. "Were you goanna past that tradition down too?"

The criminal dropped his head, his shoulders drooping suddenly. "I… yes, I planned to once Sammy was older. He came from a real bad situation. His father was addict. Mother had split. I wanted to give him a good home, you know. Like my pa did for me, but… that didn't happen. Two weeks. He was home no more than two weeks and then…" The criminal rubbed his nose and stood shaking his head. "As I said, I ain't sorry."

The warden nodded. "As you said."

"I did."

"You did."

There was a beat of silence, which was filled only by the sound of the toilet running and the light bulb swaying and the footsteps tap dancing on the other side of the door, the one at the end of the hall. They were coming, the other guards. The criminal flexed his biceps seeing them teeter through the little window. The door opened. Five men entered. He blinked down at the warden who leaned forward his head in his hands. The criminal gritted his teeth, moved as if to talk when suddenly the door was crowded by shadows. The voice of the most ominous bellowed into his cell.

"You!" the leader, the bigger, meaner, and uglier looking cop snapped at him gruffly. "Criminal no. 012715, you are to come with me." The bear cuffed him then hulled him out of the cell. The warden didn't speak just stood to his feet watching everything with his hands in his pockets. He didn't move beyond the cell though, which the criminal thought strange.

He stopped or attempted to once they began to manhandle him down the hallway. Of course, he met some resistance. They pushed and prodded leading him to the right as he attempted in his fear to ask the warden what was on his mind, to ask once more what he was missing in his story, what he couldn't get right. By the time the door at the end of the hall opened and he was pushed through it, he realized that he would go to the grave not knowing, dressed as a cop with his last cigarette sitting cold and unlit in the bottom of his pocket. What a waste, he thought. He should have lit it. The door slammed shut behind him and his breath wavered. What a waste.

* * *

The dusk approached slowly. The sun basked lazily in liquid reds, the color of blood and rain. A storm was coming. He could see its clouds rolling in covering the orangish rays like cotton over a sea of ink, soaking them, making them more vibrant and warm. Normally, he would watch the dawn with its pastel colors and delicate displays of light, but today… today, he opted for the sunset. It was a fitting memorial he thought, he figured, the criminal. That and one other thing. He spied the cigarette balancing on the edge of the ashtray, his match box resting lonely beside it. He would light it once the sun had set, reset it back on the tray and watch its light flare out like the life of the warden.

It took him mere minutes in his fear to realize that the men who had come to get him were ushering him out of the prison instead of further inside, where the gallows were built. Yet, once he was free. It had taken him weeks to discover why. The man had taken his place, unknown, unannounced. The criminal gritted his teeth remembering the sudden phone call, the list of questions. They were random and redundant, things that the man never really needed to know. He knew by then what he was already planning. He remembered his fear.

Yet what the criminal didn't understand was why. It was a mystery, like what happened to his body or where it was buried. The criminal had looked but like with everything in the system, that information was locked heavily under red tape and legal fees. He just wanted to pay tribute, find the man's family and apologize, explain what had happened. Maybe they could explain what would possess him to do it. The criminal sighed. He may never learn. Instead, the man who suddenly had his life placed back into his hands picked up a cigarette and lit a match wandering into the night what he would do with it now that he had the time.

* * *

**Not perfect, but still... Thanks for reading. - Calla**


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